


Spring Rains

by erebones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, post-S3, stag night remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt for the Springlock Exchange 2014: theunsaidandtheread: I am into "firsts", but I never picture their first anything as being rushed and dramatic. I picture it as natural and easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Rains

Evening at Baker Street. It’s early May, and the ancient lead-case windows have been ratcheted open in the sitting room of 221B to let a damp wind blow through. The heavy brocade curtains move in stiff deference to the breeze, casting off their winter cloaks of dust to the oncoming spring.

It’s been months since the shooting on Christmas Eve. Months since Sherlock’s plane landed on the tarmac and John felt like everything that had been crumbling around his ears was starting to reconstruct itself. Now Mary is living in a safehouse somewhere in Switzerland, under Mycroft’s custody, slowly unspooling the story of her service to Moriarty. John has been reinstalled in Sherlock’s life, back at Baker Street, and things aren’t quite the same – but things are _good_.

John sits in his armchair and Sherlock in his, listening to the heavy downpour. It seems impossible that they’re already almost six months on from what was possibly the worst Christmas of either of their lives. Six months spent recovering from wounds both emotional and physical, relearning the contours of their life together. Revolving around one another, coming into closer orbit. There have been soft, shy touches and quiet smiles; lingering looks over morning coffee and falling asleep with their heads together on the couch after cases and crap telly. But no words.

Now the winter thaw is breaking, and all the unsaid things have built up on John’s tongue like the aftertaste of cinnamon: warm and woody and lingering.

They had a case just now, a small one Sherlock got blood all in his hair – not his own – and had to take a shower, and now he slumps across from John with his head a wild nest of untamed frizz. The air is cool and damp and smelling of old books, and under it, clean skin and soap. John’s fingers cradle a glass of single malt, and so do Sherlock’s. The detective’s long legs are splayed comfortably before the fire, and John has a warm, languorous itch to brace his feet on the soft patina of the seat leather and stretch out his aching legs.

Sherlock’s head lolls against the back of his chair. “What’re you looking at?” His voice is so, so deep. They haven’t had too much to drink, but the late hour and the drowsy relaxation of the hearth makes the room fuzzy and sort of soft. John gives into temptation and puts one foot up on the supple leather of Sherlock’s chair, between his spread thighs.

“Your hair is ridiculous.” He slurs only a little, but the words come out slow, like syrup. Maybe he’s had more than he thought. He swirls the jeweled liquid in its tumbler, watching the firelight trapped inside like veins of gold. “So… floofy.”

“Eloquent as ever.” Sherlock smiles at him, unashamed. It’s a rare moment that John can look into his friend’s face and see the truth of his emotion there. Sherlock is so careful, so guarded. John wriggles upright a bit and props his head on one hand.

“Sherlock.”

“Mmmm?” The man’s already gone and nearly dozed off. Sherlock blinks quickly, gaze sharpening for a moment on John’s face. “Yes?”

“I know we don’t – we haven’t. Er. Discussed…” His lips are dry. He licks them once, very quickly, and watches Sherlock’s eyes follow the movement. Little glints of silver in his long face. John feels a surge of affection for Sherlock, and he pushes through the awkwardness. “Well, we haven’t discussed much of anything.”

Sherlock’s eyes have sharpened. “Is there a need?” He takes a swallow from his own glass, and John watches his long throat bob, spellbound. Sherlock sets the tumbler down. His thumb finds his mouth, nail bed resting gently against the plush pout of his lower lip. It would almost be coquettish if his expression weren’t so serious.

John’s heart squeezes in his chest. “I’m in love with you.”

“Yes.” In spite of his admission, Sherlock’s breath stutters, and John knows he’s struck him with his frankness.

He leans forward slowly, draws his sock feet down onto the floor. “I have for… a long time.”

Sherlock smiles. “I know.” His knees are already spread, but John fancies they open just a bit wider as Sherlock stares at him. An invitation?

“And you’re in love with me.”

“Of course I am.” There’s a small sip of scotch left, and Sherlock licks it from the glass without guile. He seems suddenly quite sober. “I thought you knew.”

“I did. I do.” John’s lungs feel tight and unstretched, as if they were newly born. “Is it all right, being in love with me?”

Sherlock’s thumb slides to the corner of his mouth, considering. “Infinitely superior to… other times. I’d only fancied myself in love, before. But then there was you, and it wasn’t the same thing at all.”

John tries not to look at the juncture of Sherlock’s spread thighs. He wants to, god does he ever. But this, now, doesn’t seem to call for it. Sherlock is stripping himself metaphorically bare, laying waste to his castle walls, and John doesn’t think it’s fair to take advantage of his vulnerability. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.” John rubs his hands together slowly, feeling the faint indent where his wedding ring once fit. “You deserve better.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash in the firelight. “I am infinitely undeserving of you, John Watson.” There seems to be more he wants to say, but his throat only works silently. Then his face crumples, and John feels something inside him crack.

“Don’t say that, please. Don’t.” And John isn’t thinking at all of Sherlock’s legs or what’s between them when he throws himself to the floor and takes Sherlock’s free hand between his. “You are a marvel, Sherlock. And I will always want you.”

“Oh, John.” Heavy with liquor and old sadness, Sherlock sinks forward and rests his forehead against John’s shoulder. “John.” He breathes it out, spice-scented and moist, like it’s the only word he knows. “I don’t know how... how to do this.”

John’s hands find that tangle of hair and comb through it softly, one thumb tracing the delicate curve of Sherlock’s ear. “There’s no trick to it,” he whispers. “It just is.”

Sherlock’s exhales are warm, getting faster to match the beating of John’s heart. “Will you love me all your days?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me love you for all of mine?”

“It would be my honor.”

It really is that easy. Their mouths meet and the entire room sighs a succumbing sigh, every cushion and carpet and floorboard sinking with the relief of something long-awaited. Sherlock is still cautious, even after their confession, but John is an eager penitent; he cranes up, shifting on aching knees, and digs his fingers into Sherlock’s thighs as if to pin him there.

But Sherlock has no intention of fading away.  He twists his arm behind himself, his kiss going clumsy, and pushes the Union Jack pillow to the floor between his feet. John breaks away and gulps for air, uncomprehending.

“If you’re going to be kneeling at my feet, you might as well be comfortable,” Sherlock rumbles, voice sticky with scotch and arousal. John shuffles until the pillow is cushioning his knees from the unforgiving floor and grins, pushing his face into Sherlock’s stomach.

“Can I take your trousers off?”

Sherlock slumps back in the chair. His fingers find John’s hair and comb through the short strands, gold touched by the frost of fading youth. “Please.”

It’s strange, undoing a buckle from the opposite angle. John fumbles a little as he slips the butter-soft leather free of the belt loops and thumbs the trouser button. For a moment he’s distracted by the heat and hardness underneath – he bends his head and inhales deeply as he rubs his hand slowly over the spot, open-palmed. Above him, Sherlock shudders.

“Always wanted to do that.” John squeezes the heft of him, forcing a ragged sound from Sherlock’s throat.

“John, please,” he rasps. “Don’t tease me.”

“Lift your hips then, love.”

With a little cooperation, they tug Sherlock’s trousers down and off, and his snug heather-grey boxer briefs are pulled askew in their wake. There’s no hiding the precise curve of his prick under the cotton, the soft curve of his sac beneath. John pets the fine hair at his knee, watching the blood pulse under fabric and under skin, listening to every ragged breath Sherlock breathes.

John breathes. “I’m going to kiss you.”

There is a long, drawn-out hum of consideration. “I assume you’re not talking about my mouth.”

“No. Your mouth is lovely – but no.” John strokes the thin, delicate skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh, slips just underneath the precise fit of the briefs. He skims the femoral artery and lets his finger brush, just slightly, against the crinkled skin of Sherlock’s sac. Sherlock’s prick jumps right before his eyes, a little twitch, and John bends and pushes his face into that sweat-damp, musky heat.

Sherlock makes a strangled sound and bites down on his finger. “God, John,” he mumbles, around the tips as John rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s prick. The heat is incredible, and when John drags his jaw in just the right way he can feel the dampness of pre-ejaculate seeping through the fabric. When he looks up, Sherlock is flushed a deep red, staring down at him with wild eyes.

“You’re already wrecked,” John murmurs against the plump head, lewdly outlined against the heather-grey cotton. When Sherlock lifts his hips in a silent plea, he takes pity on him and slides the briefs down and off.

“You too,” Sherlock whispers. “Please.”

It’s not quite begging, but the closest he’s ever come. John rocks back on his heels and stands, a bit wobbly as the room tilts a bit. “Bloody scotch,” he mumbles, and when Sherlock takes his hips and coaxes him forward, he lets himself fall into his lap in a graceless jumble.

“What – Sherlock…”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sherlock rasps into his ear. His breath is hot and damp, and smells strongly of liquor. John shudders. “Our first time… should be special. Unique.” His lean hips, completely bare under John’s trousered crotch, are squirming in an almost-rhythm that’s driving John insane. He fumbles with his zip and grinds forward properly, making Sherlock choke.

“Wrong,” he says, brimming with fondness. The thin barrier of his pants between their cocks is maddening, making his head swim until all he can think and feel is _Sherlock_. He thumbs that aristocratic cheekbone, and doesn’t bleed. “It’s you – of course it’s going to be special. Don’t need red wine and rose petals and bloody – mm – _candles_.” His mouth drops open as Sherlock tucks a hand between them, palms him through his briefs. All words have dissolved, but he doesn’t need them. Sherlock understands.

“Want you in me,” he huffs, burying his face in Sherlock’s curls. He smells like skin and warmth and expensive shampoo.

“John,” gasps Sherlock.

“Please. Please, just a little, I want to feel you.”

“Can’t–”

“I know– I know, let me get my trousers– _oh_.”

There is a muffled shout, and Sherlock throws his head back, his entire body stiffening between the bracket of John’s thighs. John nudges the curve of Sherlock’s throat and watches as his lover spills all over his stomach and the gaping plackets of his nice clean shirt.

“Sorry,” Sherlock moans, still twitching. For answer, John shoves the waistband of his briefs down behind his balls and shoves into the mess on Sherlock’s stomach.

“No, god, _fuck_. Hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock watches him, glassy-eyed, his hands fluttering uncertainly at John’s gyrating waist. “Where do I – want to make you come, John. Show me.”

John’s close, but not so close he can’t think straight. And he knows exactly what he wants. “On your belly,” he rasps, shuffles back to let Sherlock turn over: stomach on the seat of the chair, head buried in the back and clutching at the cushion. John rucks his shirt up and licks each knob of his spine as he grinds lightly into the lovely pale swells of Sherlock’s arse.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and Sherlock sighs a broken, wondering sigh. He’s still flushed from orgasm and shining with sweat; when John grabs a sweet handful of arse and rubs his prick there, he slides easily into the damp crease. Sherlock shouts into the cushion and clutches so hard at the smooth leather his knuckles turn white. John’s chest swoops, steadies.

“Lick,” he commands, gently – Sherlock sucks the proffered fingers like he’s starving, tongue curling at the tips and probing the nail beds as he salivates. When his hand is good and slick, John brings it back and massages where he’d dearly love to put his prick someday. The hot, tight hole flutters under the pressure, and he can’t help the breath that hisses out of him at the sight.

“Put it in me. God, John, _please_.”

“Not yet, my lovely. Not today.”

Sherlock sobs into the cushions, and a quick feel confirms John’s suspicion – his foreskin his receding again, the shaft just a bit firmer than it was a minute ago in the aftermath of orgasm. He probably won’t come again, but he’s riding the edge between arousal and overstimulation, and John can hardly breathe for how turned on it makes him.

He rubs the head of his cock against that sweet, secret part of Sherlock. His fingers are wet with saliva and precome, and the sound of his hand on himself fills the room, overlaid with Sherlock’s soft panting and the occasional animalistic grunts that John can’t contain. He’s close now, so close, he just needs one more push –

Suddenly, Sherlock’s hole opens up for him, and the head of his cock breaches his body just to the corona. John freezes, shocked, staring down at where the edge of his foreskin wrinkles up against Sherlock’s hole – and comes. Hard.

When he next opens his eyes, he is sprawled over Sherlock’s back, still breathing like he’s run a hundred yards at full speed. His prick is softening, just being pressed out of Sherlock’s body. He slumps back with a long sigh, stroking the slightly reddened skin of Sherlock’s arse, and watches as a few drops of semen slide down his perineum and drip onto the floor. The pit of his stomach clenches optimistically.

“Sherlock?” he murmurs. “All right?”

“Mm. Better than.” With a bit of effort, Sherlock lets himself be pulled back into John’s lap. His knees protest, but the armful of warm, pliant, post-orgasmic detective is worth it.

John nuzzles the side of his neck and smells sweat and fresh spring rain. “Come to bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> I pulled a lot of my favorite tropes and hints of my favorite fics into this as a sort of self-indulgence. See if you can spot them all!


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